


Family Ties

by ASCENSIONS



Series: Of Narcissism and Death [1]
Category: Confessions of Dorian Gray, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alasdair Bellamy, And Bellamy’s Son Whom I Named Andrew, Gen, Isadora Rigby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26808457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASCENSIONS/pseuds/ASCENSIONS
Summary: Norwich, 1984.Dorian Gray returns to the United Kingdom and finds himself accompanied by a man in Pulls Ferry. The conversation takes a desolate turn when his partner reveals that he’s related to a phantom from Dorian’s past.
Series: Of Narcissism and Death [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065197





	Family Ties

**Author's Note:**

> This is a previously unpublished piece from 2015. Some edits were made, but most of the original structure was kept untouched. This work has spoilers for the episode “The Twittering of Sparrows.”
> 
> Alasdair Bellamy’s son was not named in the episode, so I named him Andrew. I like to imagine Bellamy’s family was not told the truth about Alasdair’s death, thus setting the prompt of this piece.
> 
> Upon relistening to the episode, I wanted to add a little insight to what Dorian thought of Isadora after killing her and The Dragons.
> 
> The quotation at the start is from Jaye Simpson’s book, It was Never Going to Be Okay, with the sample as followed: “Spoke to spirits long before I realized I was just as dead as they were.”

_I realized I was just as dead as they were._

* * *

  
The last Thursday of the month.

Dorian’s feet guided him through the rain-kissed earth to Pulls Ferry, a watergate transformed into a famous landmark. Twilight blanketed over England, and the dim stars sparkled in the dark sky. A visible puff of breath escaped his parted lips as he came to a halt. His hands fiddle with his tweed overcoat and suit underneath, but his eyes were set on Pulls Ferry. Inscrutable eyes darted from the stone arch, to the adjoined ferry house, to the foliage surrounding the walkways, and stopped at the tranquil stream. A small collection of strangers walked through Pulls Ferry; some merry couples chatter about their lives, others passed by like phantoms.

Dorian walked down the small set of steps, edging closer to the river. Hands pocketed in his overcoat, he indulged in his senses. His eyes captured the placid body of water, immersed in the tiny ripples. The rustle of the trees shivered, preparing for winter’s arrival. The cool breeze brushed against his warm face, the intimate connection between nature and man reminding him of a subtle, treasured thought— _he was human._ Contrary to popular belief, Dorian was still a man made of flesh and bone. The only difference? Ichor replaced his mortal blood. The thought vanished just as quick as it came. He succumbed to his senses again, only to be interrupted a few minutes later.

“Hey,” a cordial voice spoke from behind. No more than five meters away.

No answer.

The voice repeated, this time with impatience, “Hey.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Dorian returned, his words slashing the air like a whip.

A hesitant pause. “You’re just standing there.”

“Exactly.” His back still faced to the nuisance, Dorian attempted to indulge in nature’s reverie. A fruitless endeavor. Dorian turned around to see a fair-haired man dressed in a cardigan and trousers. “Well, is there something you want from me?”

The man answered with a question of his own, “Shouldn’t you be at home with your family? I mean, it’s Thanksgiving.” He scratched the back of his neck, projecting a crooked smile.

A scoffing laugh from Dorian. “Thanksgiving is an _American_ holiday,” Dorian stated, his tone airy as an aftermath of his laugh. He studied the poor sap, his visage contorting into one of pity. “Anyhow, you’re a local. You should know it’s not celebrated here.” It was his turn to pause, his next words delivered with consideration, “Even so, I wouldn’t want to be with them.”

The stranger’s curiosity piqued. A short inquiry. “Why not?” Eager for knowledge, the man with sunshine-coated hair balanced his smile.

Dorian turned his head back to the river. A quietude fell upon the atmosphere. He thought of his parents. That alone caused him to wear a bitter expression. The look faded, his facial muscles relaxing as his mind began to clutter with memories of Isadora Rigby, née Gray. The last moment he shared with his little sister was engraved into the core of his mind and heart. Poor decisions in Pulau Ujong 28 years ago led to an outcome that exterminated the sliver of hope to restore their relationship. At least he cleaned up the loose ends.

Dorian’s retinas burned with Isadora’s frightened and shameful visage. He took a sharp inhale, followed by a steady exhale to cleanse the poisonous memory away. “We never really got along,” he replied, “but we’ve managed to move on.” A lie to the man he was talking to, to himself, to his dearest Isadora. His kin was nothing but bones buried under Parisian soil. Perhaps she found her peace. He wished the same unto himself. To Dorian Gray, there was no moving on. He was stuck in this body; never aging, never dying. Under the unspoken rule of reciprocity, Dorian asked, “What about your family?”

The man’s smile morphed into a hardened frown. “My dad’s dead,” he began, “but my mom is still alive. I’m all she has left.” His eyes followed Dorian’s gaze. “It’s a shame that we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Family gatherings are rare, don’t you think?”

“Depends on the sample. People tend to meet every so often.” Another lie. Dorian gave a pensive drone as he backtracked to his acquaintance’s first comment. “You must miss him.” 

“The way only a son can.” Shoulders slumped forward, the stranger lost a portion of what made his appearance composed. A heavy pause added to the dense air, the weight of it enough to crush their conversation to grains. “Oh, hell. Sorry. That’s rude of me,” he went on to say, breaking the silence with the same vigor he would if he were to rip the sky apart. His eyes tore away from the river and onto Dorian. His smile returned as he extended an arm out. “The name’s Andrew Bellamy.”

Dorian’s blue optics descended to the offered hand. Bellamy. That name sounded familiar. Partaking in the handshake, he introduced himself, “Charles White.” One, maybe two, seconds later and it dawned on him. Shock painted his features with thick strokes. Bellamy. As in Alasdair Bellamy, the chap whose life was cut short by the demons inhabiting his darling sister’s body. Dorian was caught.

“Funny,” Andrew began, regaining his composure as he squared his shoulders. His amiable smile shifted into a shrewd, knowing smile. “Last I checked, your name was Dorian Gray.” He pulled his hand away, wringing his wrists. “I want answers, Gray. I want to know what _really_ happened to Alasdair.” 

Dorian looked around, finding that Pulls Ferry was empty aside from the two men. He fixed his attention back to Andrew, his lips sealed to keep The Dragons dead.

“Gray,” the Bellamy child piped up, “I want to know. And this isn’t fair for me. This is for my mom, too. She still misses him… every day. Every single day.” His voice grew in frustration. “Your sister died. I know that. If you knew that she was in great health and she fell off the face of the earth all of a sudden, wouldn’t you want to know the reason behind it?!” Silence was his answer. He prepared a loaded question and fired, “Don’t you miss her?”

The question punctured through Dorian’s rib cage and into his heart. “The way only a brother can,” he spoke in a noxious timbre. After allowing silence to choke whatever good-natured courtesy remained, Dorian added, “ _Fine._ I’ll tell you the truth, but whether or not you’ll believe me is up to you, old boy.”

The thing was, what he planned to unveil was not just for the Bellamy family; it was for the Gray family, too. It was for him to pummel the memory of Alasdair into his head, to remind himself that hazardous results tend to follow hazardous encounters. That man would never stop plaguing his thoughts. Nor would Isadora. No matter what Isadora told Dorian in her frantic plea for a mercy kill, he grew to like the concept of her as a true Gray. She chose the decision to welcome death in the guise of her brother. Isadora committed an act of boldness, and not even Dorian could be that fierce in the face of death.

It made him miss her even more.


End file.
